


Homecooked

by avearia



Series: Hunk's Kitchen [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cooking, Food, Gen, Gordon Ramsay in space, Hunk's Kitchen, Slice of Life, Tumblr Prompt, blade of marmora, minor original characters, somebody feed these poor rebels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 01:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avearia/pseuds/avearia
Summary: Prompt from Tumblr User lotors-saltwife:"Consider: Hunk cooking recipes he learned at Vrepit Sal’s for Kolivan and the Blades, who haven’t had a home cooked meal in years…"





	Homecooked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Longpig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Longpig/gifts).



> Done in response to lotors-saltwife's prompt on tumblr. It's adorable and I couldn't resist. 
> 
> I am also mildly convinced that the Galra subsist on vitamin-rich food goo and quintessence injections, because that's all we see them really consume during the war. It's probably considered 'efficient'. The only time we see any Galra with actual, viable food is when Blaytz flirts with the servant. Zarkon has meat near him in the same shot. 
> 
> It's a little depressing. Someone introduce these guys to some actual food, please!

**Homecooked**

-

“Bon Appetit!” 

The main dish Hunk had chosen was a prime cut of Rakken meat, slow roasted to soften it to a fall-off-the-bone consistency, then seared to crisp the outside and seal in the rich, smoky juices. He made sure to pair it with something sturdy to complement the taste—each slab of meat was served over a bed of Talpa grains and paired with a side of rich buttered greens.

The overall vibe was more ‘home cooked Sunday dinner’ than his usual 5-star-restaurant fare, but Hunk figured, after glancing at the sorry state of the Mess Hall kitchen, that a meal packed with love was just what the Galra ordered.

“Yellow Paladin,” Kolivan said, using his most diplomatic voice as Hunk set a plate before him. For once the man was not dressed in his armor, though the dark gray jacket with black lapels certainly _looked_ official. “When you offered to help fix our kitchen malfunction, this is—not _exactly_ what I had in mind.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hunk assured him, thinking back to the smoking pile of nuts and bolts he’d offered to repair. “I promise I’ll rebuild your food-dispenser thingamajig once I have some new recipies to program into it.”

“What is a 'Recipe’?” Kolivan asked, suspicious as they come.

Beside him, Antok poked at the steak, tail swishing in agitation. “Why isn’t it mashed?” he asked, almost sounding lost. “The kitchen always grinds the food.”

Hunk fought the urge to put his head in his hands. 

“You guys just break my heart, you know that?” he said at last, sliding hot plates in front of Havik and Regris, two blades that Keith had befriended over the past month. “Honestly, between you and Sal, I’d hate to see what traditional Galra cooking tastes like.”

“The nutrition bot does well enough,” Kolivan argued. “Traditional cooking is… costly. Inefficient. This station alone houses up to seventy Blades. Our bot can scan, portion, and mix enough food from the storeroom well enough for all of them.”

Hunk shuddered. He’d gone digging in that storeroom. Had to sort through two dozen roasts to find _four_ that were properly marbled. At first, he’d thought, Rakken meat must be naturally tough. Or maybe the Blade could only afford low quality animals. Rebel fugitives didn’t often have credits to spare.

To circumvent that problem, Hunk had set aside the worst-quality cuts for stewmeat, which was already simmering away in a crock in the kitchen. He’d also slated a third of the remaining cuts to make marinades, ground meat, and sausage.

But no. Apparently, the _Blade_ tackled the problem by just. Blending. _Everything._

 ** _Heathens_**.

“My mother used to cook like this, on feast days,” Regris said as Havik warily stirred the Talpa with his spork. Fresh from the holodeck, still dressed for battle in their lavender-gray training suits, they should’ve been ravenous. Instead, they eyed the cuisine with cautious trepidation. “She’d bargain for an animal and would roast it on a spit, whole, all day.”

“Seems inefficient.” Antok said.

“Oh, it _was,_ ” Regris assured him, voice wistful. “But I miss it. Skies below, have I _missed_ it.”

Hunk wondered, faintly, how long it had been since any of the Blades had enjoyed a homecooked meal. The way Regris talked, it seemed even before joining there wasn’t much to be had; when your entire race is bent on conquering the Universe, war rations were probably the norm.

Regris looked down at the plate before him. “Of course,” he went on, “When she cooked, it was just the meat. Not this… assortment.”

“It… does smell good,” Havik conceded at last. He scooped a sporkful of grains halfway off the plate and let them trickle off his spork for his inspection.

“Only the best for friends,” Hunk assured them, setting the last plate down in front of his own teammate, Keith.

Despite being the last one served, Keith was quick to snatch up his knife and spork, already sawing at the meat and shoveling a bite into his mouth without taking even a second to scrutinize it. The others gathered at the table stared at him intently, whether out of curiosity, or whether they were expecting Keith to keel over poisoned, it wasn’t clear.

“Oh, just eat,” Keith told them, digging into the Talpa. “It’s not going to bite you back.”

The Galra waited for Keith to take about two or three more bites—maybe just to make sure—sitting very still. Then, in some form of silent rock-paper-scissors, Kolivan narrowed his eyes at Antok, who got the message. Antok, who was only Half Galra, Half Cryvian, had a higher constitution than the rest. He sighed, his face that of a man having drawn the short straw, and dutifully cut off a corner of the meat.

The first bite went into his mouth. Antok chewed exactly twice before he went completely still, every muscle frigid, eyes staring down at the plate so intensely it was like he could see through the table to the floor. He held that position for a long moment.

“Uh, you have to chew,” Hunk blurted quickly, coming to a worried realization that maybe _The kitchen always grinds the food_ translated to _I’ve never had solid food before_. “Really is best to chew, small bits, so you don’t choke—”

And the next thing they knew, Antok, hardened warrior and BOM second in command, was crying.

“What is—” he stammered, around the morsel in his mouth. “What have you— _laced_ this with—”

“…Spices?” Hunk said cautiously, and doesn’t miss the growing suspicion (or subtle alarm?) on Kolivan’s face.

“Spices,” Antok echoed, reverent. He was still weeping. Openly. “—I’ve never—never tasted—”

“It’s perfect.” Regris cut in.

All attention snapped to the younger Galra, who held his spork aloft, face wistful and vigorously chewing. Kolivan shot up in his seat, face pulled tight in alarm, obviously conflicted by Antok’s confusing reaction. Kolivan’s voice was strict. “I did _not_ give you the go-ahead—”

“Hey, I’m starving. And it’s fine,” Regris argued, through his mouthful. As if to demonstrate, he swallowed. “After all, he used ingredients we always use, right? Just, prepared differently?” He cast a glance at Hunk, who nodded. Regris looked back down at his plate, mouth parted and tongue rubbing at the roof of his mouth. At last he murmured—"It _does_ taste like my mother’s.“

He didn’t hesitate to scoop up another sporkful, and Antok, who’d recovered from his shock, was close behind.

Kolivan sank back into his seat, stoic. He watched Antok, then Regris, as the two ate. Slowly, at last, he gave the nod. One by one, Havik, then two other Blades at the table, dug into their food. Antok had nearly polished his plate clean before Keith piped up; "Kolivan, I promise. I’ve been eating Hunk’s cooking for months. He’s the best chef I’ve ever known.” To Hunk, he said, “Thank you. I haven’t had a meal like this since Shiro’s Mom cooked for us over Christmas break.”

Exactly the vibe Hunk had been going for. He puffed out his chest in pride.

Kolivan finally picked up his silverware, and the emotion in Hunk’s chest fled, replaced by an expectant breath. Kolivan was, after all, the head honcho, the man who could veto his experiments if he didn’t like what he tasted. And—Hunk cast a glance around the table at the Blades, who looked more awed and content than he’d ever seen—they deserved it. Everyone deserved three things - a happy family, an open sky, and a well-cooked meal.

 _Everyone_ deserved that.

Kolivan carved his Rakken roast and gave it a thorough, scrutinizing glare.

He didn’t sniff it, and he didn’t hesitate when putting it into his mouth. And he didn’t twitch. There wasn’t a single tear, like Antok’s outburst, or a smile, or a hurrying to gather up another bite… but there wasn’t a frown, or a stutter, or a call for Hunk to be thrown off the ship. Kolivan just sat there, chewing with a measured rhythm, and thinking.

At last, the leader of the Blade of Marmora put his spork down.

Hunk stared in anticipation.

“I find this food—” Kolivan started. And though his words were careful and measured as his usual political voice, his tone wavered with some odd emotion. “…Acceptable,” he finished, meeting Hunk’s eyes. “I will permit you to continue to repair our dispenser with these— _recipes._ ”

Hunk’s heart bloomed, and he smiled.

“Oh, man,” Havik murmured, speaking to Regris, but so enthused that the whole table heard. “Can you imagine eating like this _every night?_ ” he asked.

“Our spies would never want to leave the base,” Antok replied, the deep snark back in his voice.

“Yeah, your usual food is pretty awful,” Keith commented lightly, smiling. “Hunk—I don’t suppose I could have seconds?”

Regris, licking his plate, nearly dropped it. “You mean there's— _more?_ ”

Hunk smiled. “Of course there’s more. I mean do you _know_ how big those Rakken roasts are?” He shoved his sleeves up to his elbows. “One batch of seconds, coming right up.”

Before he left for the kitchen, Hunk saw Kolivan gather his spork and take a second bite.

-


End file.
